


Do Us Part

by DesdemonaKaylose



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Fake Marriage, Forced Marriage, M/M, Shorts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 16:54:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30058605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesdemonaKaylose/pseuds/DesdemonaKaylose
Summary: Arranged Marriage starters from my weekend request blitz, archived together here so as not to overflow the feed. Some are shorter, some are longer.First prompt: Ratchop
Relationships: Brainstorm/Tarantulas (Transformers), Megatron/Rung (Transformers), Optimus Prime/Ratchet, Prowl/Tarantulas (Transformers), Rung/Starscream (Transformers), Tarn/Ultra Magnus (Transformers)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 59





	1. Ratchet/Optimus: Primal Arrangements

**Author's Note:**

> Any and all of these short fics are free to a good home if someone else would like to build on what I have here. Just let me know you're doing it, and they're yours.

The great vault of the palace reception hall dizzied the senses with mosaics of tile and elegantly stylized equations in blue and shining white, and it would have been nice enough, Ratchet was sure, if only he had been in any mood to appreciate it. The expectant pressure of functionist stooges at his back distinctly soured the atmosphere.

Optimus Prime himself was pretty enough, although Ratchet had never cared about that, and he seemed smart enough, although it was hard to tell, since he’d hardly spoken since Ratchet was dragged before him by a bunch over excited courtiers with credits sparkling in their eyes.

“A perfect conjunx for a young Prime,” one of them had proclaimed, “prestigious, highly functional, and ranked in an appropriate caste! You’ll never have to worry about having a medic in your household once you bond him!”

Of course no one had asked _Ratchet’s_ opinion on the subject, but why would they? The whole point of this farce was to get him away from the unseemly and embarrassing work of saving actual lives and neatly out of the way in the Primal Harem, where he couldn’t make people uncomfortable with his endless meddling and lack of respect for propriety. Well the joke was on them, if they thought a little thing like _marriage_ was going to get in Ratchet’s way.

“I beg your pardon, honored councilors,” Optimus Prime interrupted, after the seventh iteration of the same sales pitch. “If I could speak to Doctor Ratchet for a moment, just the two of us?”

It took a lot of hemming and hawing and polite maneuvering, but eventually the Prime did manage to get the chamber empty of all but the two of them. By the time the door shut behind the courtiers, Ratchet’s estimation of the new Prime had gone up by about three hundred percent. He could work with this, maybe. Or maybe he was kidding himself. Primes were Primes, after all.

“Doctor,” Prime said, and turned from the door to face Ratchet. His optics seemed sad, but then, his face had sort of a sad cast to begin with.

“Prime,” Ratchet replied.

“I apologize for what you’re going through,” the Prime said. “I can see that you are clearly not driving this proposal. I can only imagine that you must be compelled by a sense of fear-”

“I’m not afraid of those tread chasers,” Ratchet interrupted. “They might have their say today, but In the long run, it’s you who’s got the power here, not them.”

The Prime paused, visibly taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Ratchet said, “if you decide you don’t like me, once we’re bonded, you can find a reason to send me away. If I piss you off, you can have my ranks stripped, citizenship stripped, property-”

“I would never,” said the Prime, in almost horrified tones. “Just because I might not like something you have to say-”

“Yeah, you say that _now_. But I’m not gonna be cringing and bowing for you all the rest of my life, I’ve got work to do, and if you don’t like it, you had better find a reason to send me away now, instead of holding that axe over my head for later.”

The Prime drew his arms around himself, as if to protect his spark, and turned away. Then, after a moment, he set himself right again and came across the sparkling palace floor with firm, regal steps. 

“Doctor Ratchet of Vaporex,” he said, “you seem to want to discourage me, but in fact everything you’ve just said to me makes me think you will be a very fine conjunx indeed.”

He reached out and took both of Ratchet’s hands, to Ratchet’s bemusement, and held them close against his warm chassis. There was a brightness in his optics now that almost made the sadness disappear. The battle mask, so noble and silver, snapped back to reveal a crooked, hesitant smile.

"I know it doesn’t seem so,” he said, “but I will take care of you.”


	2. Starscream/Rung: Holy Matriphony

“Wait no more,” Starscream called out, throwing open the doors to his palatial office, “your Primus Ordained mate and benefactor has arrived.”

The only bot in his office, seated neatly in the leftmost chair across the desk from Starscream’s own seat, turned and looked at him. It was a little thing, at least compared to Starscream (who wore his martial prowess in every inch of hip and shoulder and wingspan). Intellectual looking, with those visual augmenters. A warm and friendly orange.

“You must be eager to learn more about me,” Starscream carried on, “seeing as this time next week the two of us shall be bonded in this farce of holy matrimony. Do you want a drink? I’m having one.”

Starscream swept around the wall of his office and opened the engex cabinet, pulling down bottle after bottle of mixers.

“Frankly this whole thing stinks of tradition, but it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make for crown and kingdom,” he said, and emptied the little round bottle of Grabnak’s Finest into his already quite full tumbler. “I’ve decided entirely to dedicate myself to being your honorable and valorous husband, for as long as we both shall live, so on and so forth, looking _forward_ very much to our forthcoming partnership.”

He knocked back the entire tumbler, and began immediately to refill it.

“I had been thinking it was time to settle down, anyway,” he said, “all these years I’ve been a bit of a _lone turbofox_ , roguishly charming of course but a bit _mercenary_ if you must know, on my own against the cruel caprices of the universe… it will be a pleasant change of course to have a loving conjunx at my side, ready to support me unconditionally, to soothe my fevered brow—”

“I’d like you to release me,” said the bot.

“To—I beg your pardon,” Starscream said, and turned around, second drink in hand.

The little bot, _Rung_ the councilor had called him, was wearing a reserved frown, his hands folded tightly in his lap.

“I’d like you to let me go,” he said. “Say you don’t want me. Say I’m too old, or too ugly, or too dull. Say you want someone else.”

“How old _are_ you?” Starscream asked, dumbly, feeling a bit as if he’d been hit in the back of the helm with a mallet.

“Seven million years, give or take another lifetime,” Rung answered promptly. “Please. You don’t want me. I’m not charming, or beautiful, or useful in any way. You can do much better than me.”

“What,” Starscream said. And then he shook his whole body, from helm to wingtip, and pointed his finger at Rung. “You’re telling me you don’t want to be _imperial consort?_ The second most important person on the planet, loved and adored by generations to come, conjunx of the _emperor?_ Who is me, by the way, was I clear on that?”

“Broodmare to the royal line,” said Rung. “Yes, I understand.”

“I’m not going to,” Starscream started, waving his drink about with a few wild splashes, “to, to, beat you with a stick until you cough up little jets, you know. It’s an enviable position. Much better than whatever twee little job you were stuck doing before they sent you to me.”

Rung regarded him neutrally, a wall of impenetrable polite distrust. Starscream grit his teeth. He shouldn’t have to negotiate for this! His future conjunx should fall down _weeping_ with joy at his feet for the honor of being chosen. He shouldn’t have to beg like a guttermech for a scrap of affection.

Starscream slammed the mostly empty glass down on the counter at his side.

“And I suppose being the darling of high society, waited on hand and foot, lavished with tribute, holds no appeal to you either?”

“I’d rather have my freedom,” Rung said, adjusting his glasses, “if it’s all the same to you.”

“Fine!” Starscream said, throwing his hands up, “it’s not as if I wanted to be married to you anyway! I’m better off alone, I always have been.”

He turned and stalked off, towards his sprawling elegant desk. “Other people,” he muttered, “only get in the way.”

He ripped one of the drawers open and pressed the button that would lock off the office from prying audios and nosy visitors. Rung watched him warily, hiding a series of flinches _almost_ well enough to avoid Starscream’s notice.

Starscream whipped his cloak out of the way and sat down at his desk, among the stacks of missives and unread letters. “If you’re so against it, then, let’s work together,” he said.

“Together,” Rung repeated. “I’m not sure I’m following. To do what?”

“To sabotage our own wedding, obviously,” Starscream sneered. “Do _try_ to keep up?”


	3. Prowl/Mesothulas: Maternal Instincts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Samsa

“Mesothulas,” Prowl said, offering his hand rather stiffly. “Well met.” 

Mesothulas took his hand and squeezed it eagerly. His body was a gorgeous example of fifth generation frame engineering, with the recognizable modernist sensibilities of that one natal architect Mesothulas had stolen several engine block design concepts from. An excellent start, although it could certainly be improved upon!

“Prowl,” Mesothulas said, “what a _delight_ it is to finally meet you. Your bridal negotiator has told me so much about you.”

If anything, Prowl grew _more_ stiff at the reassurance. “Yes,” Prowl said, “I’m told you very specifically wanted me, rather than the rest of the eligibles put forth. I admit, I don’t understand the decision.” 

“No?” Mesothulas said. “I looked over your simulation records--naughty, I know--and by all accounts you have one of the cleverest processors working on Cybertron today! The _things_ you could accomplish, with the resources you deserve-”

“I _mean_ ,” Prowl said, “Cold constructs are not much sought after as conjunxes. We do not have nurturing instincts.”

“Absolute twaddle!” Mesothulas said, brightly. “That’s a matter of the spark, not the construction. Anyway, whatever you might be lacking in, I’ll happily make up for it. Don’t let it trouble you a moment longer.”

Prowl stared at him. 

Mesothulas lifted his hand and gave it a reassuring pat. “We’re a team now, you and I,” he told Prowl. “Two of the most brilliant minds in our species? We’ll make something _wonderful_.”


	4. Tarn/Minimus: Peace Bond

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for cyanideoreos

Tarn’s anticipation had reached unbearable levels, left alone to wait in the colonnade of the courthouse, with nothing to distract himself but a series of increasingly frantic transformations.

Of course, his intended was as bound as he was by the will of their respective commanders, so it was ridiculous to be nervous but--autobots were so _disobedient,_ and Optimus Prime could barely keep a pack of cards together, let alone an army, without cleverer bots running about fixing his mistakes, and what if one of _those_ bots took it into his mind that--

He was in tank form, scattering rocks in the rock garden under his treads, when the sound of steps sent him stumbling through a rushed transformation. He whirled, and there--lingering uncertainly between the gleaming columns--was the refined figure of Minimus Ambus, lately of the Ultra Magnus posting.

Tarn swallowed thickly. He’d seen Ultra Magnus in battle, once or twice, and was entirely familiar with his statistics as a notorious enemy combatant. But without the armor--the suit--Tarn had never seen Minimus Ambus simply as himself. Here at last was the mind behind the elegant poetry of the Autobot Code, the construction of its tight legal strictures, and so much of its graceful nuance.

He straightened up. Confidence, that was the key--confidence and charm, and just a hint of menace, but also affection, but not _too_ much-

“Minimus Ambus,” he purred, “I have been eagerly awaiting the day I could finally meet you…and I am not disappointed. You are beautiful.”

Minimus Ambus, all fierce red optics in genteel fine features, considered him grimly. His fists clenched.

“If you mean to bait me into reneging on this agreement,” he said, “I will remind you that this was not my ideal fate either. But for the sake of our great peace, we have a duty.”

Tarn fought not to visibly wilt at the cool reception. 

Faced with an Autobot whose favor he was meant to be courting, it was a struggle not to be dragged down in the memory of all his inadequacies, all his many sins in the name of Decepticon victory. Now that the war was ending, he had no idea what sort of life he was meant to live. He suspected that if his own faction had not gained the upper hand well enough to negotiate the Autobot’s conditional surrender, rather than the other way around, he might have found himself an effigy upon the ideological pyre, rather than engaged to this vision of judicious competence.

Who probably hated him. 

“For the sake of our great peace,” he agreed. “Please, I apologize if I gave offense. I meant it entirely in sincerity.”

Minimus regarded him with naked suspicion. "If you mean it so sincerely," he said, "take off that sheet of propaganda and look me in the face while you say it."

Tarn touched the worn enamel of his facemask. He had worn it to oversee tortures and executions, to hide his weaknesses--should he be wearing it now, in front of the mech who was meant to be his conjunx?

"After all," Minimus went on, with savage precision, "I'm meant to bond a mech, not an office, correct?"

Beneath the mask, Tarn--or Damus, perhaps--flushed hot with fear and the slightest bit of anticipation. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "I suppose..."

It felt like the heaviest load in the world, to lift the mask from his face. His fingers trembled with the strain. Nonethless, the alternative was much worse, and so he persevered. With the violet metal in his hands, held tight against his chest, Damus found that he was not able to look up from the gleaming rocks of the garden at all.

"I _have_ been eager to meet you," he said. His gaze managed to advance as far as Minimus' white pede tips. "And I am not disappointed, at all."

Minimus made a noise of general acknowledgement, not particularly enthused. Damus drew together all the strength of his mantle as Tarn, and finally looked up again into the piercing optics of his future mate.

"And you are beautiful," he said. "Please. I'm many things, but never a liar."


	5. Megatron/Rung: Misapprehensions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Izamun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might come back and do this prompt the other way around in the future, once I figure out how to set it up

Megatron received the diplomatic party in the throne room at Darkmount castle, as high and removed from them all as he could be. Iacon’s new status as a vassal state to Kaon was in finalization, mostly down to ceremony now, and this was the ceremony that Megatron liked least.

At the heart of their glittering party, the proffered conjunx stood in his delicate white wrappings, mantle pulled over his helm, gold bangled and grim faced.

A temple mech, Megatron’s advisors had told him, very good luck as far a conjunxes went—rumored to be blessed by the fertility of Primus himself, well mannered and skilled in all sorts of refined pastimes, intelligent, knowledgeable of history and philosophy.

And also, apparently, a bunch of faint-sparked waifs.

“All that’s left,” said the lead diplomat, looking very pleased, “is the witnessing ceremony next orn. Your promised conjunx is available for the night, if it pleases your mightiness.”

The temple mech visibly set his jaw, and lifted his face up to the throne for the first time. He looked as if he’d rather be eaten by scraplets. How flattering.

“Yes, alright,” Megatron said, “you, conjunx of mine, come with me.”

The courtiers and diplomats, hungry eyed, parted around Megatron.

They took the quiet passage from the throne room to Megatron’s private wing of the palace in silence, the temple mech a step behind, his head bowed again. Every step he took was musical with the soft ringing of jewelry against frame.

Megatron unlocked one of the spare bedrooms for personal visitors and marched inside, flipping on the lights and dispensary flow. The mech trailed in after him, lingering at the door.

“Well?” Megatron said. “You must have a name,” he said. “Go on, out with it.”

“Rung, my lord,” the mech said.

“Rung. Very well. The temple is reluctant to part with its priests, so I hear,” Megatron said. “They must be trying to impress me. Does that sound about right to you, Rung?”

“After what happened in Tesaurus,” Rung said, “Iacon had more than enough reason to ingratiate themselves with you as quickly as possible.”

Megatron wrinkled his lip. “It must gall them,” he said, “a great city, reduced to bartering for protection with a jumped up gutter tyrant. I can see the acid at the back of their teeth when they smile.”

“My lord,” the mech said, which was neither an agreement nor a disagreement. Exactingly, painfully neutral.

Megatron made a noise of irritation. “Come here where I can see you. And get that scarf off, you don’t need it inside.”

The mech’s hands hesitated at the neck of his mantle. 

Megatron would have rolled his eyes. “Oh, for pity’s sake,” he said, “here—”

And then he reached out for Rung, and would have pulled him towards the seating, only as he was reaching out, the little mech flinched back from him so hard that his body chimed like a chorus of bells.

Megatron recoiled. His so called conjunx kept his head down, not daring to look up. Megatron noted with annoyance that he was a handsome little thing, after all. Just the sort of well made data pusher that Megatron used to admire from afar, as a young and stupid mech.

“What a beast you must think me,” Megatron sneered. “What a barbarian, ready to put my brutish hands all over your good and civilized self.”

Whatever reaction Rung might have had to that, Megatron didn’t care to see it. He marched over to the berth and threw down Soundwave’s newly programmed passkey on the pillows, the little blue chip bouncing with the force of his ire.

“You don’t have to worry,” he said, viciously certain, “I’m _never_ going to touch you.”

He glared at the chip, hating it. When he looked up, Rung was frowning at him in a distant, calculating quiet. 

“You have your run of the palace,” Megatron said, grimly. “Whatever secrets your masters sent you here to find, you’re welcome to them. And once you’re all satisfied, we’ll speak no more of this disgusting scheme.”

Megatron made for the door, his spark full of bitter water. There would be no ceremony, he thought; there would be no more of this farce, no further than diplomacy demanded it go.

As he tore out into the hall, through the arch of the doorway, Rung watched him go with uncertainty, and with a slow, careful consideration.


	6. Tarantulas/Brainstorm: Commonalities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Thenightect

This was not where Brainstorm had hoped to end up. Standing in a conjunx broker’s office, staring down the barrel of a lifetime bonded to a stranger. All the years he’d worked running and fetching in Quark’s lab, dreaming of bigger things, he’d been thinking more... big prizes, grandiose titles, galactic name recognition, a lab of his own, grants, funds, a foundation in his honor...

Not... this.

The conjunx broker tabs between a couple of forms. “Based on your shared interest in experimental science - practical, I see, yes, here at Wheelock & Wheelock we know better than to match up theoretical scientists with practical technicians - we judge this an auspicious match for a lifelong betterment of both parties. You’re in agreement about most basic household management styles as well, which is always a plus...”

Brainstorm stares at the beastformer. Well, it’s hard to look away. All those different types of optical sensors. Brainstorm can’t even imagine how many colors he’s picking up on the visible spectrum alone.

If Brainstorm was a different type of jerkaft, he’d probably ask why he was getting shuttled off to bond a beastformer. Granted most traditional scientists weren’t excited to marry _down_ with a jet plane, but a beastformer was a drop in social level even steeper from where Brainstorm was probably sitting. Only he isn’t that kind of jerkaft, and he doesn’t _actually_ give a damn about playing 3D chess with societal convention. The mech could turn into a coal scuttle for all he cares.

All that really matters is that he isn’t Quark.

“I’ll leave you to get to introduced,” the broker says, taking in the uncomfortable silence and apparently deciding not to let it be his problem. “Give me a shout if you need anything!”

The room, with its fancy little ceramic vase and fancy little oil paint and fancy little imported table, rings with the ominous sound of a door sliding closed. Brainstorm has never dreaded the immediate future more, not even the very first time Quark caught him messing about with chain reactions in the polymer lab.

“So, uh,” Brainstorm says. “Higherups on your case about being single for too long too?”

Tarantulas cackled. “No, no,” he said, “I just thought it was time to see about a partner in crime. I run my own labs, no higherups to speak of.”

“Must be nice,” Brainstorm grumbles. “I keep petitioning the board to let me generate patents, but all they ever say is ‘you’re fine where you are, just keep making the fuel mixes like you’re supposed to.’ I swear if Quark didn’t let me use his lab half the time...”

Brainstorm trails off, too dispirited to even get a proper rant going. Of course Quark had the right to say no, of course he did, but--Brainstorm had imagined such grand and wonderful futures for them, together, the perfect team...

Tarantulas tsks. “Oh we’re not going to have any of _that,”_ he says. “If you bond with me, naturally you’ll come and take a share of my lab. What is it you’re interested in?”

“Weapons,” Brainstorm says, automatically. Which is true, he gets a lot of mileage out of guns and bombs and other things that go _boom._ But what he’s actually most interested in - what no one in their right mind will let him touch - is

“Dimensional structure,” he says, “space-time.”

Tarantulas lights up. Literally, his optics flash green. “You don’t say?”

And then, because he can’t help himself, Brainstorm word vomits his theory about material transference across temporal space using physical objects as anchor points. By the time the broker pops his head back in, Brainstorm has overturned a painting as is using the back of the canvas to sketch out equations for Tarantulas, who has perched on the edge of the table and is watching with rapt intrigue. 

That gets them very abruptly shooed out, bonding forms shoved into their chests and the brokerage doors shut firmly behind them, but Tarantulas wants to hear more, and so they duck into a salon on the corner and carry on talking while both their coolant tanks top off. The salon attendant is wise enough to give Brainstorm a bit of scrap to scribble on.

By the time they stand on the street corner under the pink glow of Luna II, all the glass of the city shining back pink and pink like the facets of an enormous cut jewel, Brainstorm feels almost transcendent with excitement, and positivity he honestly hasn’t felt for years. 

Tarantulas looks up at the sky. “I fear it’s growing late, and I must bid you adieu,” he says. “Would that I could hold the passage of time still for us!”

“You’d need a lot of pheblotinum for that,” Brainstorm jokes. And then, buoyed by confidence and not a small amount of late night mania, he announces: “Let’s meet up tomorrow. If I don’t win your heart in a month, we can call off the wedding!”

“Brainstorm, you are a delight,” Tarantulas says. “And I rather think you already have.”


End file.
